


In Wonderland

by turtledoves (sakroots)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Famous Annie, Los Angeles, Tragic Romance, triggers are spoilery and listed inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3879934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakroots/pseuds/turtledoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Finnick Odair is jokingly dared to sleep with award winning actress Annie Cresta, so of course he’s gonna try, but he accidentally falls in love, and everyone goes mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the song Wonderland by Taylor Swift.
> 
> Triggers are listed in the end notes because they're spoilery; check there first if you're wary about anything.
> 
> Wow I think I'm officially on a streak of writing tragic stories oh well have fun reading *evil grin*

* * *

 

 

_we fell down a rabbit hole._

 

* * *

 

He is undeniably the worst stalker in the world.

It’s day two, when he’s flipping through a newspaper he bought from the stand outside Cliff’s Café, that she walks right up to him arms crossed and wearing a surprisingly fierce scowl. After what seems like hours of staring at her and waiting for her to call the police, she just shifts to pull her sunglasses back.

“Are you following me?” she asks.

It’s the bored tone in her voice that pauses the “no” before it passes his lips, the nonchalant way in which she stands as if she’s tired, not irritated, like this is just another routine in her day.

“Yes,” he answers, because the least he can do is tell the truth.

She purses her lips, and he stares a second too long. “Why?”

“I was dared.” He grins.

Technically, it’s the truth. Friday night, when he finally relented into letting Peeta teach him pool, a drunken Johanna pointed out that he’d have a better chance at getting Annie Cresta into bed than getting one ball in a pocket.

“Is that a challenge?” he’d asked. If it wasn’t before, it immediately became one, and before he knew it, strangers were betting on his chances.

He’d spent an hour searching her name, trying to discover where she’d most recently been and if there was any way to predict where she’d go next. There were seventeen different addresses of hers, according to seventeen websites. So he picked the closest one and parked across the street at five in the morning. He’d almost missed it when she walked right passed his window, heading in the opposite direction of town.

She’d walked right inside Cliff’s, so he went back the next day, on the off chance that he’d catch her on her way in, which was off the even bigger chance that she’d return.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks. He knows he’s being insufferable, and possibly pushing his boundaries too far, but she hasn’t walked away yet, and this might be his only chance.

“You’re kidding,” she says.

Annie Cresta turns away from him, walking inside the café. Without thinking twice, he follows her.

She doesn’t acknowledge his presence once, which is fair enough, until she’s about half way through her hot chocolate. The chair opposite his scratches against the floors when she pulls it out, placing her drink on the table before her and clasping her hands around it.

“A bit warm for summer,” he comments.

“What do you really want?”

He smiles, stirring one more packet of sugar into his coffee, thinking over the best response. “You’re even more beautiful in person.”

When her chair scrapes the ground again as she pulls away, he whips his head up, frantically trying to catch her eyes. Almost every single person in that bar betted that he’d never even meet Annie Cresta in his lifetime, and he’s determined to prove them all wrong.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just wanted to meet you.”

 

* * *

 

He’s returned to Cliff’s every day since, and every day she’s arrived before him, sitting in the front window with her hot chocolate. Today, she’s flipping through a stack of papers, no drink in sight.

“Finnick,” she greets, and he’s not sure when she became so familiar with him. “Buy me a drink?”

He places the hot chocolate in front of her—whipped cream spiraled up two inches past the rim of the cup as she always takes it. It’s the first time she’s let him pay for her, and he’s grinning as he sits across from her, but his face drops when he notices the crinkles in her forehead as she gazes down the page.

“What’s that?”

“None of your business,” she answers, and she circles something with a pencil before returning it behind her ear.

“Just curious,” he mumbles. His fingers flip through the pages of his book, figuring it best to entertain himself if she’s going to be antisocial today.

She sighs, though, loudly, and he drops the book back on the table. “My agent has been trying to get me on a new job forever now and she’s getting more frantic each week.”

“Didn’t you just do that science thing or whatever one, though?”

“Don’t joke, you know what it’s called.” He smiles, because she always takes the opportunity to remind him how much he idols her, and he loves the sparkle in her eyes when she does. “And it’s been a month since it wrapped. I’m being slow.”

“They’d hire you no matter what. It’s called hiring, right? Or do you have some special term...?”

It never truly escapes him that he’s talking to three-time Academy Award winner Annie Cresta. She is a living legend, and he’s often pondered why she doesn’t hire people to constantly be rolling out a red carpet wherever she steps. He’d do it, he thinks, if she asked. It was one of the first thing he learned about her, however, that she despises the media and popularity more than anything. He watches as she turns away from the window when someone walks by, sits with her head ducked, always wears sunglasses as if they actually aided any in concealing her identity.

“Hired, cast, booked... it doesn’t matter,” she answers.

“You sound like you don’t even care,” he says.

“Truthfully? It’s more work than it’s worth.”

“Well, that’s fantastic to hear, because _I_ am hiring, you know.”

“Your bookstore?” she asks, leaning forward to snatch his novel from the table. “Tell me, do you write as well?”

“Off the record?” She laughs, green eyes sparkling again, and nods her head. “I dabble.”

“Good, then you’ll have to write me a good role one day.”

He snatches his book back, makes a quick promise, and gulps down the rest of his coffee to make his shift on time.

 

* * *

 

_haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds?_

 

* * *

 

On the ninth day, he notices two photographers in front of Cliff’s and a third one across the street. He freezes, because he knew that this would happen eventually—Annie constantly tells him how lucky she is not to have been discovered yet.

He thinks of her then, pictures her in the moment. Her head’s turned away from the window, bowed, she might’ve moved to a seat farther in the back. She’s stirring her hot chocolate, which is a nervous habit of hers but she always claims not to notice it. Her sunglasses are most definitely on.

But when he opens the door to the café, the small bell announcing his arrival, she’s sitting tall, sunglasses still atop her head. One of the cameras is pressed right against the glass, but she takes another sip of her drink as if they’re not even there. Some of the folks inside are animatedly whispering to each other, but the owner behind the counter is frowning, obviously upset.

He’s not sure when exactly he walked back outside, right up to the paparazzi.

“Hey, mind your own business, all right?” he says.

“That’s _Annie Cresta_ ,” the woman informs him, as if that suddenly excuses her actions. The man next to her steps back to take another shot, and Finnick steps in front of him, leaning against the window as casually as he can to block his view.

“What are you doing?” the man asks. His camera is still up, and Finnick smiles brightly.

“Just resting here. Is that not allowed?”

He hears a few faint clicks of a camera, and then the photographer scowls and walks away, his partner trailing after him, heels clicking loudly with each step. There’s still the one across the street, but Finnick figures he’s not causing any harm and steps back inside.

When he sees Annie, giggling madly into her hands, his anger fades.

“Thanks for the view,” she manages to say, her laughter reduced to hiccups. “And I was doing fine, for the record.”

“I never doubted you for a minute.”

 

* * *

 

“Give us the details, Odair,” Johanna says, sidling up next to him, an arm thrown around his shoulder. He can already smell the alcohol on her breath.

“Of?” he answers.

“Annie Cresta.” A small crowd around him laughs, and there’s even a glint in the barista’s eyes when she places his beer in front of him.

It takes him two blinks to figure out what she means. The first is because he can’t remember telling Jo that he’s met the actress, and the second is when he remembers the dare.

“Not yet,” he answers, and slides her the beer. Suddenly, he’s not in the mood.

“Turned you down?” Johanna calls after him as he makes his way out. “Hey, you just got here!”

“See you,” he shouts, but there’s no emotion in his tone.

 

* * *

 

Annie isn’t surprised in the least when he shows up at her half an hour later. She does peer behind him and asks him if he’s secretly working for the LA Times, which he just laughs at in response, before letting him inside.

He’s only a few steps inside when he pauses, his eyes scanning over the room inch for inch. She’s already disappeared around the corner, and when she comes back, a tub of ice cream and spoon in hand, she quirks a questioning eyebrow at him—he secretly despises that because he can’t raise one eyebrow to save his life.

“It looks normal,” he explains.

“What did you expect?”

“Like, expensive things.”

Her main room, the only one he can currently see from the entryway, is cluttered with books and loose papers. The furniture is ordinary; in fact, he thinks there’s a tear in the loveseat. The hardwood floor is covered in different rugs of different patterns like a patchwork quilt.

She’s smiling at him, and he doesn’t understand why he expected anything else. When he glances around again, everything seems incredibly, well, _Annie_.

So he joins her in the kitchen, original astonishment faded, and she hands him his own ice cream tub and spoon.

It takes him a while to place the reason behind the pounding in his head, a reflection of his heartbeat, and when he figures it out, he almost jumps up with the intent to leave.

“Everything all right?” Annie asks.

A strand of her hair falls in front of her eyes, the ends dipping inside her tub. She scowls for a moment then twists her dark hair into a bun, loosely securing it with some spare pencils from the counter.

“We’re friends, right?” he asks. It’s not quite the first thing that he wished to say, but it works well enough. His eyes are still following her hands as she picks the spoon back up and carves into her ice cream.

“I don’t let just anyone into my apartment.”

“But you’re _Annie Cresta_.”

“And you’re _Finnick Odair_ ,” she says, mocking his tone. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? But you act more human than fangirl. That’s why we’re friends.”

“What’d you do if I said I’d been dared to sleep with you?”

“I’d say you’re not very good at following through.” She laughs, completely at ease, and there’s nothing better than seeing a girl more perfect than the media ever could’ve conveyed. “Why haven’t you?”

“Hm?”

“Slept with me. You’ve had plenty of opportunity.”

He pauses, setting his spoon back in his bowl. “Would you have agreed?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“You started a new one.”

“No,” she answers, looking him in the eye, but a second later they’re both laughing, a wave of ease washing over them. She flicks a bit of ice cream at him, and suddenly it’s become a war of flashing spoons and flying dessert. It ends when she points the the sink faucet at him, spraying him and drowning his tub of ice cream with warm water. Her hair’s taken chocolate brown to a whole new level, and a strawberry puddle is forming at his feet.

“Being rich is so much fun,” she says, eyes alight with mischief, and they fall right back into their laughing fits, sides still cramping from the previous round.

 

* * *

 

_whispers turned to talking and talking turned to screams._

 

* * *

 

Johanna Mason slams the magazine onto his coffee table and stands with her hands on her hips in front of his television. He’s not sure why he gave her the keys to his apartment—she never uses it for any good reasons.

“Why are you holding hands with Annie Cresta?” she demands.

He takes that moment to look down at the magazine. It’s opened to a few pages in, the page dog-eared and sticky-noted. The photo is small, but it’s right in the center of page. He pushes the magazine away, not caring what the caption says, not wanting to know where this puts him in the media’s mind.

Johanna pushes it back towards him, kneeling on the ground across from him. “Answer me, Odair. How long have you been seeing her?”

“Just a month,” he answers, scanning the caption long enough to know that he wasn’t mentioned by name. It’s not any more reassuring, because now Annie’s the only target, just as she always is.

“Yet you aren’t bragging and shoving it everyone’s faces,” she says.

“We’re just friends,” he argues, though he knows she’ll never believe him. He doesn’t believe it himself.

She proves him right when she deadpans, “That doesn’t look like friends.”

 

* * *

 

Annie signs a deal with a new movie, and everything changes the second it’s announced online.

The paparazzi tail her like hawks—even more so than usual—and she starts using her twitter on a daily basis again, texting Finnick less and less until every moment he’s spent with her turns into nothing but a dream.

The majority of the movie is filmed in studios nearby, so he knows she’s falling asleep in her own bed each night, and he knows she has time to spend with him. So, he chalks it down to her not wanting to be focused on by the media anymore than she has to, and he finds himself hating the media more and more every day.

She calls him after a couple weeks. When he picks up, not knowing what to expect, she sounds tired, but he hears the smile on her lips when she says hello.

“Could I come over?” she asks.

“Yeah, of course,” he answers, glancing over his apartment to make sure it’s respectable enough.

“Thanks,” she says and immediately hangs up.

He’s reading when she knocks on the door. Her knocks are uneven, and he wonders which tune she’s tapping along to this time.

“Ellie Goulding?” he guesses once he opens the door.

She holds up her iPhone screen to him before pausing her music. “Taylor Swift.”

Annie walks in then, shutting the door behind her and collapsing on his couch, attempting to pry away her ear buds with one hand while lying on her stomach.

“I’m sorry,” she says, placing her ear buds on the coffee table, “that I haven’t been around.”

“You’re a busy person,” he says, sitting in the chair closest to her head.

“That’s not a good excuse.”

As much as he hates not seeing her, he hates that she blames herself even more. But before he can say something, she continues.

“It’s just—I hate them. I hate seeing photos of me that I never knew were being taken. I hate when they try to deduce things about my life. I hate when they pretend they know me. I hate when they make stuff up about me,” she says, face pressed into the cushion and hands clenched. He wonders if she’s crying, if he should do something. “I don’t want to drag you into that, too.”

He moves to kneel in front of her, and brushes his hand through her hair until she shifts to look at him, head slightly propped up by her arm. Her expression is curious, like she expects him to say something comforting, but he can’t think of anything. He just wants her to smile again.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he whispers, although he knows he would.

Her voice is laced with disbelief when she asks, “Really?”

“Not if I had you to protect me.”

It takes a few seconds, but then she’s grinning at him, dull eyes turning bright again like they should be. By the time it takes for him to smile back, she’s pulling him towards her and gently pressing her lips to his own. When he doesn’t pull away, she tugs him closer until he joins her on the couch, feet twisted with hers, smiles never fading.

 

* * *

 

The media, it turns out, couldn’t care less about Finnick Odair, but Annie’s fan base won’t stop talking about him. The comments range from outraged to disappointed to excited and everything in between. It’s not the opinions that get to him—though that’s what mostly bothers Annie—but how many people are posting about him. It’s overwhelming.

“Why the hell do they think I’m faking it?” he asks one day, scrolling through Annie’s tag on Tumblr.

“Because you’re hot,” she answers. “Now close the tab; it’s not helping anything.”

“What does my hotness have to do with it?”

“Because they’re jealous, I don’t know. Why would I know?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Finnick,” she warns.

He closes his laptop and leans back until his head’s in her lap. “All right, all right.”

She balances her book (well, technically it’s his book) on his forehead before reaching for her lemonade. When she lifts the book, his face is transformed into the most obscure expression he can manage. Her responding laugh is enough to make him forget about all the comments, at least for a little while.

 

* * *

 

_didn't you calm my fears with the cheshire cat smile?_

 

* * *

 

The first interview for her latest movie starts immediately with questions about Finnick, and he watches it in disgust when Annie’s away. Their relationship is not something that the world should need to know.

It’s at this point, after almost five months, that Annie starts to crack under the pressure. For being as famous as she is, this is the biggest production she’s ever been a part of, and the effects are tremendous.

For the first time, nothing he says is good enough.

“I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them,” she whispers one night, tearing into her rocky road ice cream with no relent, as if it was solely responsible for bringing her to the top.

“You’ll get through this,” he tries to tell her, but she shakes her head.

“No, I can’t,” she whispers as if telling him a secret. “I never have.”

 

* * *

 

The only thing he can think is, _how didn’t I see this coming?_

It’s always been there, and at two in the morning, when he’s comforting her after a nightmare, she tells him everything.

“I wasn’t supposed to be a big thing, you know?” she starts. “I was gonna have a little acting career on the side, then—I don’t know, I never got far enough. I thought I’d have more time.”

He reaches to wipe her tears away, but she jerks back. “Don’t,” she says. “There’ll only be more.”

So he pulls her into his arms instead, feeling better when she’s this close to him because this way he can protect her from anything. She rests her forehead on his shoulder for a minute, but lifts it up when she continues.

“I was never supposed to have to deal with all of them. All of the pressure. I mean, I- I couldn’t, Finn. The thought of- the thought of never having anything just be mine without anyone else to have, too, you know? I don’t want my life to be everyone else’s—it’s barely even mine.

“But-but everyone else seems to do it just fine. Balance things. Deal with the media. How do you do that? Be okay with it, I mean. I think I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

“Everyone’s just as lost as you,” he says. He’s pressing his hands flat against Annie’s back, as if this will keep her with him when he’s so afraid of losing her.

“No,” she shouts, but then she flinches and lowers her voice to a whisper. “No, no, no, no! You can’t see it. You don’t know. It’s just this fight each day to try and be, I don’t know, whatever they want from me. However everyone else is.” She pauses and looks him in the eye. “And don’t you dare say that I should just be me because that’s not how this damn business works.”

He bites his tongue, because there are a thousand ways he could disagree, but none of them will make her smile again. Instead, he suggests, “Then stop.”

“What?”

“Stop acting, like, forever.”

“I can’t do that. Not when I’ve gotten this far. I’d let everyone else down.”

“You don’t owe them that. Not when it’s making you this upset.”

“I’m not upset,” she says, raising her voice again. “I’m... I don’t know. I’m just a mess.”

“Not around me,” he says. He’s tracing words onto her back. _I love you_ , he writes over and over again, just like he has been for the last couple weeks. He’s not sure if he hopes that she knows what he’s writing or that she doesn’t.

“You’re an escape,” she whispers. Then, she amends. “Not in a bad way. I didn’t mean, like, I like escaping to you.”

“Stay with me, then.”

“Forever?”

“I’d like that.”

“Don’t turn into one of them,” she pleas, and although her words are slurred with sleepiness and her eyes are drooping, she sounds desperate. He agrees—doesn’t she know he’d do anything for her—and then he lays her down, tucking the covers to her chin, and whispers goodnight.

But he doesn’t sleep, not for a while, because for all the media’s worth, and it’s not much, they’re especially awful at characterizing people. He lies there for an hour, staring at the ceiling, and compares everything he thought he knew about Annie Cresta before and everything that he knows now. In the end, he decides that, no matter how perfect that they made her out to be, there’s no one better than the woman lying beside him, eyes still rimmed with red and hair still wildly un-brushed.

He wraps his arms around her, smiling softly in blissful naivety, and closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

_it's all fun and games 'til somebody loses their mind._

 

* * *

 

Annie can’t seem to decide if she’d rather grip his hand like a vice or forgo holding it altogether when Finnick pries his fingers from hers and wraps an arm around her waist instead, kissing her head as he does so.

“Just you and me, okay?” he says, trying to ignore the faint click of the camera to his right and braving a smile.

She nods, and relaxes into him as they walk down the street towards Finnick’s bookstore. It’s just far enough away from the center of town to avoid the brunt of the horrid traffic, but close enough to be part of the true LA experience. Tourists wander the streets with digital cameras, too caught up in the excitement of being in LA to be looking for the star walking among them.

She roams the store as he works in the backroom, making sure everything’s in order. He tries to cut his time as short as possible, so Annie doesn’t have to be aimlessly wandering without him for too long even though she asked to come. When he emerges from the backroom, he’s not sure why he’s surprised to see her delicately trailing her fingers along the book spines, a radiant smile on her lips looking like it’s about to burst.

He steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his face into the crook of her neck, and she laughs. There’s nothing he loves more than her, and he wants to tell her that while she’s still laughing, still enjoying her day. He wants her to be this happy always.

It’s when she’s turning to kiss him that a camera clicks again, and as she freezes, her smile fades and she slumps forward, hiding in Finnick’s arms. He can feel how tense she is, but by the time he realizes she’s about to snap, the camera’s already clicking again and Annie’s springing towards the culprit.

He’s on the other side of the window, panning through whatever pictures he took, so he doesn’t notice—can’t notice—when Annie rips open the front door to head right towards him.

For a second too long, Finnick pauses, not sure what to do, but then he’s sprinting after Annie and catches her right as she’s launching herself at the man. He clutches her to his chest, and for a frightening moment, she tries to claw herself out, but just as suddenly she stops, falling into him as deadweight.

The man with the camera—up close, Finnick thinks he might be better associated with the press than the paparazzi—has the nerve to snap one more picture before backing up and turning away, wearing a mixture of expressions.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Annie whispers. “Stop him, Finnick, please!”

“Shh,” he consoles, leading her back into the safety of the bookstore’s backroom. “Everything’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not,” she cries, turning in his arms until she’s gripping him tightly. “I told you I’m a mess and now they know it, too.”

“It’s just a bad day,” he soothes.

“No. No, I liked today. I had you today. He ruined everything. I’m tired of it.”

“Not everything,” he says, reaching for whatever words will make things right again, before letting himself laugh. “I don’t know what to do. Let’s just buy all the ice cream in the city and eat it until everyone goes away.”

She nods, trying to smile. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

He stays the night. It’s not that unusual, not since filming wrapped for Annie’s movie and she’s had more and more time to just relax, but something feels different this night. He can’t name what exactly it is.

They watch animated Disney movies until midnight, eating plain pasta, microwaveable popcorn, and ice cream—neither of them can cook to save their lives, and Finnick hates when she spends money for good food when he’s with her because he can’t match her half and half on the price.

Annie smiles the whole night, even singing along to Mulan like she did in the beginning of their relationship before the pressure of the media got into her head. Finnick, to her amusement, tries to sing along as well. Afterwards, he can’t recall when their laughter faded away into kissing—her lips, her cheeks, her neck, her collarbone, and back again—and the final credits scene played until the very end, unnoticed. When they switched the main room for the bedroom, the television was still on, casting a dim glow over the empty bowls and plates and ice cream tubs.

 

* * *

 

She is not by his side when he wakes up.

He doesn’t think much of it; she could be anywhere from the bathroom to the kitchen to a surprise meeting with her agent at some ungodly hour before 11:00 am. So, he rolls out of bed and lazily tugs on pants before walking to the kitchen for some breakfast.

He doesn’t notice until his bread is already in the toaster; he didn’t care to glance at the main room when he walked past, but when he looks over the divider between the room and where he stands, it’s the biggest mistake he’s ever made.

Naturally, he first assumes he’s dreaming or he’s seeing things—both options being infinitely better than reality—but no matter how many times he pinches his arms or closes his eyes as tightly as he can and opens them again, she’s still there, lying on the couch, so close, yet miles away from him at the same time.

It’s in a daze that he walks over to her, slides the line of empty pill bottles off the coffee table to sit down on it’s edge, careful not to step in the vomit, and takes her hand between his. He intertwines their fingers, selfishly taking the moment to pretend everything’s all right before slipping his other hand to her wrist and feeling for a pulse.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, tightly holding on and waiting for any sign of life. It must take hours, perhaps days, before he manages to let go and stumble back. When he grabs hold of the phone, he dials 911 even though he’s not sure if that’s still the right thing to do when the person’s already dead.

Holy shit, she’s dead.

When the operator asks him what his emergency is, he can only cry.

 

* * *

 

One of the paramedics is the first to find the suicide note—it’s in a tub of ice cream that’s been scrubbed clean and left on the coffee table. Finnick never even noticed that she’d taken care of the rest of last night’s mess, and he feels worse for not being the one to find it.

It fits perfectly in the bottom of the tub, and it’s addressed solely to him. The paramedic holds the tub out to him, and Finnick takes the envelope with shaking hands. He wants to be alone when he reads it, but he also wants to be with Annie every last moment until they have to physically drag him away.

It turns out he’s not even allowed to follow her body out of the apartment. It doesn’t feel right, to see her being carted away from her own home, which has been taken over by paramedics and the police. One of them needs to keep him back for questioning, but once Annie’s out of his sight, he’s sobbing again and falling down to the floor to try and curl up, trying to make the world disappear. He wants to make everything all right, but this time there’s not one thing he can do. He will never see Annie smile again.

The police officer leaves him alone once she realizes she won’t be able to get anything from him now. She tells him that they’ll contact him later, and then another officer offers to give him a ride home.

When he’s back home, tears finally fading to a stop, he opens Annie’s envelope, taking care not to rip the paper and crying when he accidentally does. When the note’s finally in his hands, he can’t think to do anything but stare. Her last words are in his hands, and he doesn’t know what he did to deserve them.

He starts to read.

 

* * *

 

_and in the end in wonderland we both went mad._

 

* * *

 

For the first few days, he tries. He really does. He tries for her because she asked him to be happy, and that’s not something he wants to deny her.

However, the press comes after him soon enough. He can’t breathe without them wanting some part of it, without wanting to know how he feels and what he’ll do next and what he thinks of everything. He’s not sure why Annie didn’t think she was strong because he can’t last a day in this turmoil, but she managed to last seven years.

Eventually he boards himself up in his house to hide from them—from everyone. He deletes any social media he has, let’s his phone die, and starts tearing apart anything that they used to have together—everything that was officially theirs—because he doesn’t deserve any of it if she can’t have it either.

He occasionally Googles her name, trying not to scream at the screen as he scrolls through article after article.

The first and only link he clicks on is an interview from the director of her latest movie, the name of it he can’t even remember anymore, and he presses play. He watches as the director says he’s sad for the loss of Annie Cresta. He watches as the director says it’s a shame that Annie will not participate in any of the promotion conferences and interviews, will not see the final cut. He watches as her loss is turned into a loss for the industry, and then he unplugs his laptop and lets it run out of battery, too, on the floor.

They do not get to own her, not in death. They are not allowed to talk about her anymore. She is _free_ from them. Finnick knows how liberating that must be.

 

* * *

 

Johanna bursts through his front door with the most sincere expression he’s ever seen on her. He hates it.

“Hey, Finnick,” she greets, lifting his feet to sit where he lies on the couch. “Listen, I know life sucks, but you’ve got to get up and do something.”

“Go away,” he croaks. It’s the first time he’s spoken in days, besides murmuring Annie’s name over and over again.

“Come on,” she continues. “When’s the last time you had some decent food? Let me take you to get a burger or something.”

Her voice is soft when she speaks, but he doesn’t want to be coddled. He wants, more than anything, to feel something. So, he yells at her to leave again, and he yells and yells and yells.

“Shut up,” Johanna finally shouts, trying to cover his voice. “Fine, sulk all day and night, I don’t care. But you’ve gotta get back out there someday, Finnick!”

He smiles, and then he’s laughing until his sides ache. Johanna slams the door behind her as she leaves.

 

* * *

 

He traces over the words again and again with his finger. _I love you._ It’s written on the line above where she signed her name—a real signature, not the autographs she scribbled over photos and T-shirts, but her real signature with elegant lines and almost-legible print.

His heart aches, and he knows how stupid that sounds, but seeing the words on the page, written reverently in the same way he traced them over her skin time after time, is destroying him piece by piece. He should’ve said them to her aloud, should’ve _done_ something, but instead he just watched her slowly deteriorate.

 _It’s not his fault_ , he tells himself, settling in the center of is bed with one of the kitchen knives gripped so tightly in his left hand that his knuckles are white. It’s not his fault at all. She said so; she wrote it down at the very top of her note.

All he did, she had written, was protect her and make her smile and remember the little things that she said offhandedly and buy her ice cream and listen to her go on for hours and be there and promise to never leave.

He doesn’t write a note; he can’t force himself to write something that she will never see. So he just presses the knife’s tip into the skin of his wrist and pulls up, cutting along the vein. His hands are shaking as he switches the knife from his left hand to his right and repeats, watching the blood slide down his arm and trail off his fingers. He amuses himself in making patterns on the bed sheets, just to pass time, but five minutes fade away, and besides feeling a little numb, nothing has changed.

In his desperation, he cuts more skin, sloppily, anywhere he can reach. Eventually, the knife slips through his fingers and rests on the mattress. He smiles before the drowsiness washes over him, causing him to fall into himself.

He’s curled in a ball, eyes drifting shut, when he tries to think of her one last time. She needs to be the last thing he will ever know—the feeling of her hands on his chest and her lips under his and the sparkles in her eyes whenever she smiled. And then, as simple as that, it’s gone.

 

* * *

 

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers: suicide, depression, anxiety


End file.
